Easy Mistakes
by ramrhythm
Summary: Hermione and Snape are thrown together when a mission for the Order goes awry. Now they must hide in Snape's safe house until the threat passes. However, they do not anticipate the threats from within that can arise from a simple mistake. Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1

"Snape! Professor Snape! They're coming, quickly, gather the potions. We have to go now."

"Granger, what is it?" His words were doubtful but his actions belied how much he trusted in her judgment. His hands snatched at bottles seemingly randomly from shelves, placing them in a black case carefully but swiftly.

"They sent the werewolf, they sent Fenrir. He's here, in the castle. We might have minutes."

"Or seconds." He snapped the case shut. "Come here, hold on to me." It was a surreal moment—as she crossed the classroom to stand at his side the thick wooden door that led to the rest of the dungeons burst open, splintering across the floor. A creature that could only be described from Hermione's vantage point as wild and large skidded into a desk, nearly toppling it over before scrabbling on top of it. Unconsciously Hermione had clutched Snape's arm and he pulled her tightly against him. He reached inside his pocket and grasped the bent galleon that was their only means of survival. In the swirl of images and colors as the Portkey took effect she saw the beast snarl and lunge toward them. She opened her mouth to scream, but the yank of the Portkey stopped her. Seconds later she opened her eyes to the den in Grimmauld Place, almost falling to her knees in relief.

"Remus! Here, now! Arthur, anyone!" Hermione's eyes snapped up to Snape and realized their ordeal was not over yet. He still had not released his tight grip on her. She heard a cry, recognizing it as Mrs. Weasley, and felt the vibrations of heavy footsteps approaching, coming from the kitchen and down the stairs.

"Snape, what's happened?" Lupin was the first to arrive, followed by Mrs. Weasley.

"Is Hermione all right? What's going on?"

"Lupin, it was Fenrir. They sent him after her." Hermione's eyes whipped from Snape to Lupin.

"What? After me? After us. He was in Hogwarts, I don't know how …"

"Someone let him in, and we have a good idea of whom, but that's not important right now. What's important is your safety, Hermione. Snape was not mistaken in saying that Fenrir was after you, we recently learned of Voldemort's plan to—"

"To kill me? Remus … he's sent Fenrir to kill _me_?"

"No. He intends to have him bite you and capture you if he can." He was having trouble holding her gaze.

"He thinks that killing you would be too easy on Potter." Lupin grimaced at Snape's admission.

"Essentially, yes. Which is why you have to go—now."

"Remus you can't send her away with that thing after her!"

"Molly, it's what is safest for her … and the Order. Fenrir has unparalleled tracking abilities and obsessive tendencies—if they do not leave now, they will not get far."

"They?"

"We will not send you alone. Snape is going with you."

"He can't! His cover!" In truth she had resigned herself to travelling alone, and having a traveling companion made her feel safer … but that it was Snape made things … complicated.

"Silly girl, my cover was blown when Fenrir broke through that door."

"Let me get some supplies, some food for them, just one minute—"

"No Molly. They must go _now_. Snape, I have grown to trust you against my better judgment, I even find myself respecting you, but if she is hurt—"

"Goodbye. Hold on to me Hermione, under no circumstances let go. Even if you are dying, keep holding on. Understand?" She nodded. "Have a tight grip?" Another nod, and then they were gone.

She could not seem to find a point of focus. Everything about her was in flux, the air was pushing in and out of her lungs without her taking a breath and there was nothing solid but the body she was clinging to. She tried to scream, but there was no air, so she closed her eyes and let her head fall against the chest in front of her, the point of reference as she drowned in space. Then they stopped. Her legs slammed into the ground and crumpled beneath her. They were on grass, on a hill, under the sky. There was a light wind, which she drank from with greedy gulps. She clutched at the blades of grass, breathed in their fragrance, pulled some out of the ground and gazed at them bunched in her fist. There was a shadow over her.

"Granger, stand up. You weren't supposed to let go."

"But we're done, we've stopped." We're alive. _We're real_. "What just happened?"

"I apparated us to twenty different locations at once, then focused us to this point."

"You foolish man! We could have been splinched!"

"We very nearly were. But that was the first bout, it will get easier as we go on."

"We can't … Snape, we can't do that again. We could be ripped to shreds."

"If we do not leave _now_, Greyback will find us and we _will_ be ripped to shreds. Take the better odds." He reached down and pulled her up. "Are you ready?"

"I don't think I will ever be ready to do that again. Is he really such a good tracker—"

"_Yes_ Hermione. Trust me. Now, wrap your arms around me and hide your face in my robes, it may be easier if you can't see." She did as she was bid, worrying over the one thing Snape had asked her to do that might prove too difficult—to trust him with her life. "Take a deep breath. No letting go, no matter what." She was about to retort that he had mentioned that point already when all thoughts other than _oh my god please let us live _were pushed out of her mind by the changes in pressure around her. This time she could feel them moving through some medium, she wasn't sure if it was air—it couldn't be, she couldn't breathe—but it wasn't water. It was the feeling of a portkey, apparition and a time-turner all at once, with a little bit of falling off one's broomstick. She began to feel sharp changes in pressure and temperature, she realized that every few seconds Snape was focusing them in a different location to try and confuse Greyback. It was a powerful use of magical control, and Hermione could not help but look up to try and experience it. As soon as she had, she wished she hadn't. Images swirled around her before solidifying as they landed with a sharp jolt, and with a lurch they were off again. On the top of a sand dune, in the middle of a forest, on the frozen, howling tundra, in a cave behind a waterfall, on a ship in the middle of the ocean, in the rainforest during a deluge, in a storage closet who-knows-where, directly in front of a raging brushfire, in a place so cold the air burned her lungs in an instant, on the top floor of an abandoned apartment building, the call to prayer playing softly in the background, and so many other places and impressions flying by so quickly she could hardly comprehend them. She gasped and couldn't catch her breath, she clutched wildly at Snape's shoulders and he growled in her ear, "Close your eyes Miss Granger, you're panicking will kill us both." She did as she was told, she honestly didn't think she could take anymore without being sick. She pressed her face into his chest and clenched her eyes shut as they swirled through space. She felt the changes in environment around her increase rapidly, their feet barely touching the ground before they were off again. Sometimes their feet did not actually touch the ground, but Hermione could feel them falling through the air ostensibly toward the very deadly ground. She didn't want to look up to see how close they got to losing their lives. Finally, finally Hermione's feet touched the ground and Snape released her, both of them stumbling a bit until Snape righted himself, cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and introduced her to his safe house, the place they would be occupying until the threat had passed. It was a small, sturdy-looking stone house in a small clearing in the midst of a tall forest. It seemed that Professor Snape had a secret cottage.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three months since the day they had staggered into Snape's hideout. Two months of mutual respect and general reticence. There had been a few moments of warmth and communication, but the pair mostly kept to themselves. But Hermione felt the creep of aching loneliness stealing over her day by day, and felt that a change had to be made between them. She felt that Severus Snape could become a friend, now that she was no longer in the constant company of a man he despised. Not that he would be able to erase the ache in her stomach caused by the absence of the lanky young men who had been her closest companions for the better part of her life. But still, a friend would be nice. She thought that if she could finagle him into a one-on-one situation where it would be impolite not to speak with her, she could show him just how pleasant it would be to acknowledge one another more often. So she politely informed him that on the anniversary of their arrival she intended to cook them a proper dinner, and asked if he would be so kind as to attend? She didn't have much practice with anything beyond sandwiches, but was delighted when a desperate search through Snape's many bookshelves and book stacks yielded two muggle cookbooks. She practiced a few dishes, found ones that sounded fancy and looked elegant but were actually very easy, and made an ingredient list for the big day.

She was very proud of her work. Everything looked so nice, even on the mismatched dishes, and it tasted wonderful too. She and Snape managed to keep up what one would describe as polite dinner conversation, and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself as well, as far as it was possible to tell. Hermione found that she was beaming with delight, and with every pleasant word Snape said to her, a thrill of giddiness filled her. As they were slowly working their way through large pieces of yellow cake, she actually began to wonder if she'd perhaps overdone it on the wine. She almost said so, by way of an apology to Snape for her rather silly behavior—she was giggling every time he spoke to her, and it felt as though a permanent flush was painted on her neck and cheeks—but he spoke first, to her chagrin.

"Hermione, are feeling all right? You look a little feverish and you're … not quite yourself." Even these concerned words pulled a giggle out of her, which she tried to stifle with her napkin, a look of alarm spreading over her face.

"Professor Snape I'm so sorry, I … I think I must have had too much wine. I'm so embarrassed." She became quite distressed that, as she spoke, tears began to fill her eyes. She was so preoccupied with this uncharacteristic response that she barely heard Snape's reply,

"Hermione, we did not have wine with our dinner."

"Professor?" As she spoke, he could see it, the awful signs. In her eyes he saw confusion and a creeping sense of foreboding, but her body language was still markedly … flirtatious.

"Have you … have you been in my potion stores, Hermione?" She started, wide-eyed, then bit her lip and shook her head vigorously, "No professor, I swear it. I would never, never do such a thing to you. I respect you so much, you must know that. It would be impossible for me to do anything that would hurt or upset you." He could definitely hear it then, and he felt sick. He went through all the possible stores in his mind, and then he remembered and cursed himself for his stupidity. How could he have forgotten? With such a dangerous potion? He looked at her, looked at the discomfort she was already feeling and knew just how much pain she was going to have to endure for his stupid mistake. He shuddered.

Then he spoke, "When I made this house I stocked it with every potion imaginable. In my stores you will find bottled substances which have not been brewed for thousands of years. I filled my cellar, organized everything, labeled everything clearly then warded it in every way I knew. Over the years this place became less of a hide-out and more of a vacation home, and I found myself adding to my stores periodically for fun." Hermione was hanging on to his every word, and at this admission a faint smile crossed her lips. It made him feel so much worse. "Hermione I—I wasn't thinking. I was just lazy and tired of taking down all of the wards every time I wanted to put a potion away. I was a fool. One day, I became completely inebriated and decided to create my own potion of revenge for Voldemort. I knew that I could create a variation of Amortentia so powerful it would make him entirely dependent upon whomever he focused on, even willing to die for them." Hermione had begun to sink into her seat, and placed her head upon her forearms folded on the table. It killed him, that she knew exactly what was coming. He knew she had researched such potions, she probably knew as much about them as he did. "I'm sorry. It was the only cabinet left." The news had sobered her for a moment, and she raised her head and stared at him blankly.

"I thought it was olive oil. There wasn't a label."

"I was alone. I thought I would never need a label for it, as soon as I saw it I would recognize—"

"It's in the salad. And the sauce. Why aren't you affected?"

"I built up a tolerance, a higher tolerance than even the Dark Lord could have managed."

"How?"

"I took it in small doses while I was here, and then got to feel the agony of unrequited, impossible love."

"For who?" He looked at her. "It isn't my business love, sorry." He'd stared at her like she'd suddenly burst into flames, and she touched her mouth. "I think … I think I don't have much time before I'm no longer myself, so could you tell me … what's going to happen to me? And for how long?"

"Oh Hermione."

And he wished he hadn't said it like that, because she shuddered, and her eyes glazed, and he could feel her power trying to fight it off, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry … I really don't know." She looked away, he knew she was trying not to cry and trying not to a thousand other things he couldn't think about, but he knew.

"A regular strength Amortentia potion lasts for about five days. This potion has about twenty times that strength in one dose. With the amount you have ingested, you've probably taken in a little less than two doses. I would say … a hundred and fifty days." She began to cry, but it was just tears and shaking, it looked like rage. She was gripping the table edge like it could save her, and looked in his eyes, dead on.

"Is there anything you can do? An antidote? I have to know. Snape what do I do, anything, just tell me the truth."She could see that he was straining to hide it, he had all his mental walls up but she was not going to attack him with Occulomency. She needed answers, and was begging him for them. He had the information, and it was killing him.

"I have an antidote for Amortentia. But this is not Amortentia. It does not look like it, and I'm not even sure what all of your symptoms will be. If you choose to try it, I do not know what will happen. It may ease your … feelings, but it may do something that even I can't anticipate. I could create an antidote for this potion specifically, but it would take me years. It is much harder to create an antidote than a poison." She was breaking, and he needed to speak with her as her rational self before it was too late. "Hermione, you could kill me." She snarled at him.

"Would you shut up and tell me something useful you incandescent genius, before I'm entirely out of my head for you?" Her words terrified him, and he realized how much they both would have to endure because of his thoughtlessness.

"You can use it up. With some love potions you can … act on the symptoms and they will … burn away."

"Be clear Severus. When you say act, you mean physical acts of love."

"Of lust. I mean sex. Hermione, I know how much agony you will have to go through, but I swear to you—"

"I will do whatever it takes to finish it."

"I will never touch you." She flew at him. He had no way of anticipating her movements, she was in the chair and then she was on him, her hands tight around his neck and her lips trapping his own. His mind had shut down for a moment, but he grabbed her arms and tried to loosen her grip, fearing at once that she had taken his advice and was trying to kill him. She released his throat and buried her hands in his hair, pulling him into her desperate kiss. He wrenched his face to the side and gasped, "Hermione, no. You cannot do this," but she found his lips again and he shoved her away. She held on to his shoulders and jerked back suddenly, violently, pulling them both to the floor, the chair toppling over and leaving them sprawled side by side, but only for a moment. She was on him again, on his body, touching his chest and covering his mouth with her own, things her body was demanding of her in ways she had no defenses against. He struggled with her and managed to grab her arms and hold her body above him, then pushed her aside so he could sit up and try to back away, but her legs twisted with his and locked. She looked at him and he knew that this was not just desperation. It was pure desire. "Hermione! You must try to stop yourself! I _do not want this_!" It was the statement that would define her pain for the next hundred and fifty days. Unrequited. Unloved. He hated himself. He saw her falter, brightest witch of her age, he saw her trying to calculate past the haze of adrenaline.

"You don't love me." The way she looked at him. As though he was a God and she was a fallen angel, finally realizing the depth of her betrayal. "You don't want me." She was too fast for him. Her hand was on the table, on the butter knife, and at her throat before he had fully understood her despair. He lunged toward her and grabbed at her arm, but she'd already managed wound herself, and blood flowed in a thin line to her collar. "It wasn't sharp enough." He'd pinned her hands between his own and shook her once, trying to get her to focus on him and not on her need to end herself.

"Hermione, I do not want you to die. I care for you. You are a wonderful person."

"LIAR! You don't love me, you said so! And if you loved me, why would you lie to me? Do you love me?" She stopped her struggling to look in his face, in his eyes, searching him. "Do you love me Severus? I love you." He pulled her hard against his chest and trapped her there with his arms, cradling her head against him, trying to protect her for a moment longer.

"Hermione you _don't_ love me. You respect me. I am your Professor, I am here to protect you. You think you love me because of the poison you drank, don't you remember?" She twisted violently against him, but he held her with all his strength.

"I remember, and I would drink it again and again if it meant I could love you more than anything, I could love only you and not have any of that other stuff, just you and me. You're mine now Severus, you are my soul." She managed to look up at him, his hands straining to keep her eyes away, to keep them buried in the fabric of his robes. "You are my soul, Severus. Without you, I would love only death." She was so still, just looking at him, absorbing him like a plant in the sun. His arms grew weak with defeat and she slipped out of them and stood. She went to the cabinet and took down a glass, filled it at the faucet and handed it to him. He took it and sipped. He felt the same way he did after he'd been crucio'd too many times, like he couldn't see what was around him and had to focus on the pain. She had crossed to get another glass, and he took another sip. He looked down at his cup. He did not hear the faucet. He heard her take a drink, a quiet gulp, and looked up. She was staring at him as she drank, swallowing another mouthful automatically. It was his turn to pounce. He scrambled up and she backed against the counter, but he managed to snatch the glass away and shatter it against the wall. She shrieked and tried to slip past him, but he grabbed her waist, then her jaw,

"DO NOT SWALLOW!" She glared at him and audibly gulped down the remaining love potion in her mouth. He slapped her. The only other woman he had ever struck was Bellatrix, and that had been under the orders of the Dark Lord. She gasped and he grabbed her face again, holding her mouth open and shoving her head into the sink, holding her in a headlock. The faucet head was detachable and he turned it on as her arms flailed against him. He thrust the end between her lips and she tried to jerk away, but he tilted her face up and she began spluttering as the water was forced down her throat. She was choking and he pulled it out for a moment, to let her breathe and she screamed. He forced it back in, the water hit her teeth and seeped past them. He let the hose drop in the sink and she tried to jerk away, but he held her and managed to pick up a spoon. She screamed and he took the opportunity to shove the end into her mouth, down her throat. She gagged, closed her mouth, he pushed it farther, she gagged again. She opened her mouth and tried to beg but the handle got in farther and she vomited. He pressed it there and she vomited again, all over his hand. And again. Then he let her fall. She was sobbing, laying there on the kitchen floor. Her vomit and blood had stained her shirt. She raised her haunted eyes to him. "I am trying to protect you. Do not disobey me."


	3. Chapter 3

She'd been sitting on the couch for hours, patiently sitting, and only the sharp twitches that overpowered her when he turned a page betrayed the enormous battle waging inside of her. There was a litany in her head that she tried to subdue, but it was sapping her energy and it was only a matter of time before she exhausted her self-control. _You want him. He doesn't want you. He hates you. You love him. Touch him, show him, he is a man and you have ways of making him want you, _want_ you, Hermione he could want to touch you if you touch him, he could smile at you if you touch him, he could care. Touch him. Kiss him. He wants you, you could make him happy if you reach out and touch him. You want him._ It filled her and swept through her mind and body like fire, and she knew that if he made any sudden movements, she would jump at him again. She hated that part of herself, because she knew it upset him. He did not want to be touched by her, he pitied her, he was disgusted by her. He did not love her. She trembled and the chorus started up again.

"Please!" The word burst from her and for a moment she was so startled she was unsure as to what she'd been pleading for, but Snape's head had snapped up and he was waiting expectantly. She had surprised herself. Neither one of them had ever interrupted the other while they were reading. Even when Hermione desperately wanted to ask him a question about a potion featured in her research, or comment on an error she found in an ingredients list, she kept silent. There had always existed a wall between them, but it had crumbled to dust. "Severus please, have you found anything that can help?"

"Very little. There are obvious cures for _amortentia_ and other less severe love potions, but I'm afraid of the consequences that might arise if I try to give you an antidote to a potion you have not consumed. This isn't _amortentia_, it is _amortentia_ _magna_ or some other latin rubbish name, and it needs the specific antidote to combat the specific ingredients working in combination inside of you."

"Alright. What cures do we know? Let's lay out what we know, and work from there. You are a potions _master_, Severus my love, I am certain you will be able to think of something." Hermione found it interesting that while she could outwardly appear calm and logical, her brain was screaming the words _working inside of you_ over and over like some sick electrocution regimen searing through her body.

"I would like it if you called me Professor Snape." He knew he shouldn't do this, that it was his fault entirely and he couldn't punish her for it, but her stupid trust and cloying words were sickening. She shrunk back a little, and he barked out information in a Snape-like manner. "We know this is not _amortentia_. We know there is an antidote to _amortentia_, an antidote which I have several gallons of in my stores. We also know that an affective antidote to love potions in general is hate potions, but since we know this is not _amortentia_ and we have no idea what might happen if we use any potion to counteract its effects—"

"You must have some idea! You're Professor Snape—"

"I AM NOT A GOD!"

"I KNOW that, you fool, but you're a bloody brilliant potions maker, and you had to have known that the sum of your ingredients would give you a certain type of result. What were the ingredients?"

"I don't—" he faltered, "Hermione I don't remember all of them, I told you I was in a drunken rage, I'd had a strong dose of _amortentia_ myself so I was bitter and blurry, and the only thing I can remember is the goddamn peppermint!"

"You don't remember the measurements, the ingredients, what you wanted the potion to do? None of it?" The panic in her voice was reaching hysterics, and he thought it was a good sign that she might be able to hate him enough to stop wanting him.

"I wanted it to cause Voldemort emotional and psychological agony, and to extract my final revenge on all of them. I was going to make him fall in love with all of them, all of the Death Eaters at once, if I could."

"This potion has the power to do that?"

"That was its intent, so I suppose."

"You're brilliant. You really are. You're so… so powerful and I'm …" she gasped and turned away from him, "I'm completely at your mercy. Oh god S…Severus I don't think I can hold on much longer … Tell me what we know, we have to decide now, please tell me."He rose from his seat slowly, she followed him with her eyes, boring into his with burning ferocity. He found himself afraid of what she could do to him. In order to have him, she might consume him.

"We know this is not _amortentia_…"

"The hate potion Severus, give me the hate potion."

"We don't know what it would do—"

"I DON'T CARE what it would do to me, I'm afraid of what I'm about to do to you, so PLEASE my beautiful light, will you either let me hate you, let me love you, or kill me now because I can't … Oh." She craned her neck back into the sofa, her hands gripped the cushion and she moaned. She was moaning for him. He almost fell back into the hallway and ran madly down the cellar stairs; he would grab the hate potion or the antidote, whichever he saw first. But he didn't make it.

"Severus. Severus stop, please." He heard her, but he'd reached the bottom of the stairs and waived his wand to let the first ward down, hoping she would wait at the top for him. Then he couldn't move, and he wondered how he'd let it come to this.

"Hermione don't. We're using too much magic at once, they'll track us …" And then he couldn't speak. What had he done? Why had he let her keep her wand, how did he not accurately assess the danger she posed? She muttered a spell and he was lifted inches off the ground, and drifted slowly back up the stairs to her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, so I suppose I need to say some things that I've neglected to say before this. First, the only part of this fic that belongs to me is the plot, every other bit is J.K. Rowling's. Second, after this chapter, more than just the language is going to be M. You are forewarned. Finally, I live for reviews. Thank you for reading!**

"I'm sorry Severus. I really am. I wouldn't have to use my wand if you were seeing things clearly, but your brain is all muddled right now and I think … I think you're afraid." His feet scraped the edge of a stair and he strained to grip it with his soles, to no avail. He could hear her voice growing nearer and it made his stomach sick. He didn't know anymore, he couldn't tell what she was capable of doing to him. She might kill him for spurning her love. He hoped for that. "I think you're afraid, my love. I think you imagine the way the others will see us if we were together, but we both know that's ridiculous. Tonks and Lupin were easily accepted, and, granted she's a few years older than I, but I am just as mature as she is. You see? And Harry and Ron won't mind … well no, they will, but they're my best friends, and they would like to see me happy. Anyway, if they don't find the Horcruxes before Voldemort, we're all dead anyway, so what does it matter?" He felt the doorframe bump against his shoulder, her voice right behind him. He would pounce the moment she let down her guard, the very moment, he would not be defeated by this silly little chit. "It doesn't matter what they think, does it? It's just us now Severus, just the two of us and our love." She turned him with a flick of her wand. He stared into her brown, shining eyes and realized she wasn't seeing him. Or was she seeing all of him? "It's time you understood that. It's just love Severus, there's no reason to fight it." And she let him down. He lunged at her, needing to pin and subdue her, but she tripped away from him, stumbling back and away and down to the floor, crawling in terror from the look in his eyes. "Severus please, you have to let go. You have to forgive me … love me. PLEASE Severus, you must love me now!" He took out his wand but she was too quick. She hadn't given up. He realized he couldn't read her, could never decipher the emotions playing through her. She was on fire now, her spell freezing him and throwing him against a wall.

"I asked very nicely for you to think about our situation, but you refuse. You stubborn boy, you think that I don't see you? That I couldn't see the way you watched me _every_ _day_ when I was on the couch across from you, reading and reading and trying not to think of the soft line of stubble on you goddamned perfect jaw line! No no, no playing now, no nice little Miss Hermione Granger who gives way on what she wants because she's a coward. Not tonight! Tonight I have bravery and lust in me thank God, and I will use them. Tonight, Severus, you're mine."

She imperiused him. His mind was soft and kind, but he could feel the lack of himself. He could feel the weightlessness he had long since been able to fight, but he struggled. It was nice here. He was walking up stairs. He wasn't doing anything wrong here. They were stairs to his bedroom. He was going to sleep, that wasn't a crime. He was tired, he wasn't imperiused, just going to bed. There was something though, something he was trying not to forget, something behind him, it made the stairs a _not right_ place to go, the door to his room, the door handle, he tried to turn it but then he stopped himself. It felt like he was swimming in tar, about to drown, but he knew he had to stop. He shook, and he heard a noise behind him, urging him on. "Severus, go in." Not that voice. He hated that voice now. He _would not obey_. He pivoted and looked in her eyes. She was shocked. He knew she was drugged, but she'd drugged him too, so he hit her. He lifted his fist and it flew through the air like a boulder through bread dough and slammed into her mouth, at the side. She fell back against the banister, clinging to it, trying not to fall down the long flight of stairs behind her. He shook his head like a dog and he came back to himself, stared down at her limp form gripping the wood.

"You bitch. You absolutely pathetic being. I don't care if you are young or poisoned or …" He was fumbling for his wand. Fumbling and not finding it. She smiled at him, just a little one, the smile of those who know and are used to knowing. It was a bitch's smile. It was the smile Bellatrix used when she had his hair wound up tightly in her claw, the smile she used when she kissed him and he didn't resist, the smile she'd used so many times to taunt him and hurt him and bind him to her. He was Snape now, fully aware, adept Death Eater enraged. He shouted and grabbed at her neck, wanting to toss her over the banister to the sharp edges of wooden stairs, wanting to bruise and batter her so she could feel how he felt. Then the wind was pushed out of his chest by a blow that sent him through his bedroom door and left him sprawled and gasping on the floor. She looked down on him with tired eyes and sighed.

"Smartest witch of my age, Severus." And then darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay folks. In the chapter after this one, I have to warn you, things get seriously bad. If you can't read accounts of non-consensual sex, PLEASE do not read the chapter six. I'm warning you now, I will warn you then. Anywho, review please, the next chapter will be a while in coming because my life is about to be hell, but hopefully it will be worth the wait. I OWN NOTHING! (Sadly ironic how true that is : ) **

He awoke in Bella's bed. It felt like Bella's bed. On his back, pinned, soft mattress below him but harsh ropes binding him. Then it couldn't be Bella's bed. She used chains. Thin, ridiculous chains that cut into his skin and reminded him he wasn't there to find pleasure, he was there to give pleasure, to be a tool for her insane need. She loved to trap him in her games, "Snatched slimy Severus from his slinking sleep and strung him up." He hated her, but he was impressed with her determination to get whatever she wanted, however she wanted. Her loyalty wasn't to the Dark Lord, it was to what she thought he could bring her. Power. Love. She thought the blind devotion she had for him was what she wanted for herself, which was why she used poor, innocent Severus. That hurt the most, the blows to his pride every time she used him, every time her hips slammed down onto his and he thrust up into her, beyond caring who or why, every time it made him want to asphyxiate her slowly with those goddamned chains. But it was rope now. He knew who he would see if he opened his eyes.

Granger. He was going to be raped by fucking _Granger_. Damned if he was. He would fight it. Gods, she was his student. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. Even if she wasn't his student—and she was—he was more than a decade her senior. He wondered if it was even legal for her to be having sex with him, if it came to that, _oh gods please don't let it come to that, why couldn't Granger follow the rules like she used to, he wouldn't do it, wouldn't take it again_—

"Severus? Severus please open your eyes. I'm sorry I had to tie you up like this, but you were irrational. I swear, it looked like you were going to try to kill me for a moment." Snape tried to tell her that _he would have gotten damned close_, but she'd magically gagged him again. He pulled on his restraints and looked up at her with a fury that he hoped conveyed his feelings. It was his patented freeze-your-soul death glare that turned most people into stammerers and incompetents if they weren't already, but Hermione smiled slightly down at him. "Sorry about that. You would probably have said or done anything to get me to stop, despite what I know you feel, so I had to bind you. Hopefully in the future we can be together like I hope, but tonight I will make do with this." She stared into his eyes for a long moment, and he knew she had set her resolve. She was going to try to go through with this, and he would be as resistant as possible.

Then her warm hand touched his chest, and he gasped inaudibly. _Why_ did she have to be young and smart and pretty? He didn't want to be attracted to her, she was just an attractive person, and in a sane world that would not have been such a horrendous thing because he would _never_ have acted on those feelings. But the proximity of her, her obvious intentions made his stupid irrepressible lust that he had thought was in an iron vice seem to blossom of its own accord. She tried to hold his gaze, but it flicked away to her lip, which was slightly swollen and a little bloody. Bloody kisses. He remembered those all too well. Bella's lips gnawing at his, both of them ferociously trying to create a little friction, a little heat between their bodies that would thaw the cold deadness inside. But Hermione's hand was warm. New tactic needed, new thoughts, one touch was making him breathe a little harder, a slight increase in his pulse, but her hand had begun to move slightly, lower, inching its way to god-help-me-not-there. Why was it wrong? Why was it wrong!

_Because she doesn't want it, not really._ And he knew that. Every moment she was being forced to be complicit in her own rape. He was, indirectly, about to rape Hermione Granger. And he couldn't stop it.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, first off, THANK YOU REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS AND READERS! You make my inbox awesome. Secondly, as aforementioned, this chapter is intense and contains graphic depictions of non-consensual sex. If you don't want to read it, that's fine. The next chapter will also be covered by this warning. I want to apologize to everyone for taking so long to post, and thank everyone who stuck with me. I went through hell the past three weeks, but I finally know I am able to go abroad next year, so I can breathe and write! Yay for more frequent updates!

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><p>She was watching his face, watching him trying not to look too eager, watching him suppress his feelings with obvious difficulty. He wouldn't look at her as her fingers trailed down his shirtfront, swiftly unbuttoning each cold button with two deft fingers, hoping he would turn and gaze at her passionately, hoping that her movements were melting him. They were burning her. Every touch of his body, every second she inhaled his male scent she was feeling more out of control. She came to the last button, slipped the cool plastic through cotton with her index finger, and remembered she was undressing her Potions professor. She felt no shame, though she couldn't meet his eyes, she plumbed her depths and it felt right to do this. It would be difficult for them both, but she could feel the need for it between them. The need was a fog on her senses for a moment, so she pressed her hand down on his stomach, feeling him and his warmth. He was breathing, and she wanted him so much. She pulled her eyes up his chest, her fingers still on his shirt just above his buckle. He was still separated from her by clothing, so much cloth it was ridiculous, what was he trying to hide under all those layers of cloth? Robes. She used to love them, in Hogwarts they cradled and caressed and kept her from prying eyes, she was safe in her robes. Snape had swirled in them, his robes made him powerful, they cloaked his humanity and soft edges in dark billows. In the cottage, they never wore robes. Free as muggles. Snape was a half-blood. She wondered if he felt comfortable in muggle clothes anymore, or if they were like donning an awkward first skin from a world that had misunderstood so much. She wondered if he liked muggle clothes, if he liked sweaters like she did, or if he just wore whatever he had thoughtlessly, just covering up his nakedness from the prying eyes of girls. No, not thoughtlessly. She looked at that beautiful point on his neck as it strained away from her, and gripped her wand. She would taste that, and he would let her. She flicked her wrist, and with a soft sound and a firm tug, Severus' blue button-up shirt ripped from his body. The mere sound was audacity to him, and he turned his head in utter shock. She was herself surprised that her desires had translated themselves so neatly into reality in that moment, and she surveyed his soft cotton undershirt with determination. Hermione placed her wand on the hem at the bottom of his shirt and pulled back slowly. Severus shivered as the spell took effect and the cloth literally melted apart; he was covered and surrounded by a mass of thin white thread. The final thread discovered itself and began its trek, the rest duly followed until there was enough for a spool on the floor by the bed, and Severus lay with his chest exposed. It had tickled slightly, but there was something pleasant and almost humorous in the way she'd done it, he almost had to smile. But she wasn't smiling. She did not think unraveling her professor's clothes was funny. Nor was she laughing at his elderly pre-pubescent chest either. She saw the chest of a man who she was planning on fucking in a few short minutes, and she was reeling. He could see that she was afraid, through it all. Her desire was making her determined, but her unease with the process was evident. The sneaking fear that she was probably a virgin reentered Severus' mind, and he blanched. Rape a virgin. The memories came so fast he had no defense, all of his walls had been knocked down by her shoddy mind control and her rather effective advances, and screaming memories of blind panic and sheer survival instinct assaulted him. He felt her goddamned determined hands on his stomach and his chest and his belt buckle, pulling and tugging and pulling him and he thrashed against it this time, he would not do it this time, he would not do that thing, that horrible thing when you can feel it all over you, the sick power and the sick gratification it brings you, the sounds and the smells when you walk into a room and you can't quite see them at it, but you know they are, waiting their turn the sick pathetic bastards, and you know you'll be one of them, just hold one of them still or hold one of the still ones and get it over with on her, just take care of it so they don't talk, so they don't tell the Dark Lord you're afraid to rape women for the noble cause. The brown hair. And he's drowning in it, he's choking on the brown hair and the half-light and he's begging Hermione, sweet Hermione who should be fucked sweetly by clumsy Weasley but will now force herself to fuck herself on him, and she has his trousers around his ankles sweet Merlin no, not this time, "HERMIONE!" but no sound comes out "Hermione!" She won't look at him, won't hear him, he's choking on her name and that brown hair and those nut eyes and a shirt with small blue flowers and blood on it and "PLEASE HERMIONE LOOK AT ME!" and she does, she notices finally because of the choking sounds, the gagging against invisible bonds or visible memories, and she puts her hands on his cheeks, tries to pull his head forward, up from where it's straining back, trying to escape from his neck and violatedviolator body, and she feels his tears, and she kisses him below his eye somehow, and he turns his head away so she can't do that again because it soothes him, tender kisses, girl kisses, and she gives him more, peppers him with them, pelters him, Pepper Up Potion pelter kisses on his lips because he's turned back to receive them. They are a gentle rain, and he opens his mouth to breathe them in.

"Severus, Severus please I'm sorry, please please forgive me I'm so sorry, it's just a little while, a little while I swear and I'll be off and away and you can burn me alive if you want to, but I have to feel you, you must know that I have to feel you _insi_-remember, _working inside of me_, I have to feel that. Please forgive me if you're able, but hush now because it's very hard."

He lets her. He remembers the girl with the brown hair. He arrived and he could hear her weeping. They were womanish tears, but the woman he found on the stairs was dead, and the man in the foyer, dead also. They had her on the kitchen floor, three of them. Three men, and he couldn't remember which ones. One was Death, two were Eaters, all three were cruel fucks. The Dark Lord had told him to check on them, an offhand remark that told him he was in good graces, and not to mess things up. He came to check on them, and they had all had her once. He sneered at them, hoping it would protect him from that moment of goading that was so dangerous to the goddamned Order and their goddamned Cause and their Jesus Christ Potter and the Virgin Lily who sacrificed herself so he could rape virgins and sacrifice himself, and all for her sanctified son and all because some little boy was tired of being left out and unwanted. They goaded and he got on his knees. It was brighter than normal in that kitchen. They'd blown most of the lights out, but you could still see the pattern in her shirt, the dark blood and pearly cum on freckled thighs. It was too bright. He'd pushed himself in and they'd cheered, they always did, and it felt like he was sticking his penis into the slit throat of a sacrificial lamb. Blood pumped out as he pushed in, and she died beneath him, gripping his robes like a lover as he fucked himself to completion inside of a corpse. He was glad she had died. He dry heaved, crucio'd one of the pigs for laughing, and none of them mentioned it to the Dark Lord. If they had, he wouldn't have had to feel Hermione Granger inexpertly removing his boxers over his semi-erect penis, muttering quietly that it would all be over in a minute and he could burn her if he wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

**Alrighty folks, after another billion years, here it is. This is the BIG DISCLAIMER MOMENT, so don't read if you don't want to. It gets pretty explicit in this one. Okay, it is explicit. Anyway, happy birthday to me, and here's another chapter. Hope you like it, reviews are love, I own nothing etc. Oh yeah, and THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH FOR READING THIS!**

And there it was. That hidden part of Severus Snape that because of its concealment revealed so much about his interiority when it was finally, finally unveiled. She wanted to touch it. That part of him that would so soon become part of her, the hook that would catch her to him and hold them close. She had thought of them before, penises, in the abstract sense. She knew they were there, beneath robes and pants and underpants, part of every man and boy she knew. Her father had one. Ron and Harry both had one apiece. She felt them sometimes, she didn't mean to, they didn't mean to, she knew. It just happened, so many nights spent together in front of the common room fire, huddled on a bed in Grimmauld place, tucked against each other on a sofa at the Burrow. It was bound to happen, little flames of desire that would wisp up unexpectedly. She remembered once, they had tickled her. She felt their silly boy fingers all over her abdomen, flitting up and down and around until she couldn't quite tell where they were touching. She was pressed up against Ron, his arms around her, her legs splayed accidentally with Harry kneeling between, his hands on her sides, tickling up and down. She felt it behind her, and she squirmed. She wanted them quietly sometimes. She knew they wanted each other occasionally. It was part of being close friends. Loving each other sometimes spilled into loving each other a bit. They had stopped the tickling abruptly; Ron had grabbed one of Harry's hands when her head had pressed hard into his shoulder. He'd moved his hips forward into her and grabbed Harry at the same time, stopping himself. "Oi," he'd said, "let's give 'er a break. Hermione's not up to all this excitement." He'd had a shaky smile when he'd said it, because they each knew intimately that things could not go that far. Not then. They were a Golden trio, not a threesome, and love like that wouldn't pan out if they wanted a normal future.

She could have had them now, though. Harry was sure he would be dead within the year, victory or no, she could see it in his eyes. Ron just wanted her, hungered after her like she was the only reason for living. They would give up sanity for a little while to be tucked into her, their great Protectoress, and she would envelop them with a loving whimper, her need sated by two tousled heads on either side, loving loving loving her. She would have accepted them as often as they'd asked on their final trek, their last great search for the unfindeable Horcruxes, but she was here. Standing in front of Severus, the slightly stiff cock of Severus, the cock that she was sure she would ride or she would die, she would kill herself with some excruciating curse because she didn't want their tousled heads or their greater cause or their goodness and light twisted up like taffy in the sad and wrong—she wanted Severus. She wanted him like a Crusader wants a knife wound, she wanted him to sear and scar and slice her in two.

So she touched him. A tentative touch, to let him know she had, in fact, found him. And there he was, his secret beating long heart, the one that drove him in the secret moments of the night that were so sacred to all humans. He would think his greatest thoughts in those hours, and fulfill his greatest fantasies. He would mull over his greatest regrets. She closed her eyes to his humanness and focused on his body, focused on the light fur at the base of him, ran her fingers through it gently. It was coarse, like gorilla fur might be. There was some on his stomach, and a gathering in the middle of his chest. Smattering of it covered his legs. She shuddered because she could see it, all of it, and she desired to show him herself. She pulled off her sweater in one swift movement, then the camisole underneath. She wanted to show herself as brazenly as he was laid before her, so she quickly pulled down the straps of her bra and unclasped the back, letting the fabric fall away.

His eyes were on her. She looked into them and was afraid. He had all the power over her. If he did not like what he saw, if he rejected her now, she would throw herself on her wand and hope that the blunt tip would perforate her tissue enough to cause fatal damage. He looked in her eyes, and he was angry. He looked down, slightly down, barely away from her gaze, and she knew. He was angry because he wanted her. He wanted her like she wanted him, and though it wasn't consent, it was less than refusal. She touched her nipple, tracing his gaze to it, and he looked back into her eyes. She extended her fingers to his penis again, touched the straining neck, the terrifying head, the shapes she was so unacquainted with but were not foreign to her. They were part of Severus, and therefore beautiful.

She pushed his pants and boxers down his legs, they profaned his body now. She would not be able to see his feet because there was no more time for spells. No more time for thought. Button, zipper, cloth receding, receding determinedly from her. It was now, and she climbed over him, her knees on his bed, on either side of his waist, in front of the gently weeping column. She loved it now. His penis. She was still afraid of it, but in the same way she was afraid of him. What would it do to her? Would it hurt her? Break her? But she wanted it, no matter what it came with. She touched her vagina to his stomach, rested herself there. She knew he could feel her wetness. She touched his face again, his clenched eyes and jaw, beautiful jaw, she kissed it, and his neck, his collarbone, his soft nipples, ran her nose through the hair on his chest and smelled him. She clenched a little when she inhaled him, and he shuddered. She couldn't hear it, but she felt the tremor go through him. When she lifted her head, he was looking at her, at her mouth and breasts and down to her pubic hair and the hints of pink that showed through. He looked at her like it was the last time, so she kissed his lips and opened them and put her tongue between them, just a little. His mouth was alive against hers, they paused open mouthed, breathing each other while the balance shifted. They touched tongues, tentatively, he was remorseful in his penetration but she sucked him in, drew him in, and he thrust deeper and she moaned around his muscle and his hips jerked up, hard, behind her. He drew back in to breathe and she kissed his panting mouth with her begging kisses.

She began to move away from him, and he watched her go. She rose up and his eyes feasted on her, she lived for the need they contained. He touched her from behind, and she felt a chill travel up her spine. Such a hot touch, a demanding touch, and she was past ready, she was woozy. There was fear and a great deal of self-consciousness when she went up on her knees and felt him there, between her thighs, wet and wanting. She looked in his eyes again. They were sad, but they were hard. He did not resist her any longer. It was too late. His cock was, after all, waiting at her entrance. He would pierce her vulva, encounter some kind of resistance from that misfortunate hymen, and then he would continue until he rested inside of her. Hermione's breath came unevenly as she began to lower herself onto him, she knew there was need of restraint but she could not seem to keep herself up, she could not stop herself from pressing against the insistent, soft, warm, hard flesh and parting her lips just a little with him, with him, she looked at him and he was looking at her, but she couldn't quite see through the fever, through the wet haze, through the red spasms, she couldn't see what he was trying to say as she rocked on him, readying herself for the plunge, for the moment of union she'd been waiting for all her life, clutching his sides to steady herself, tears falling from her eyes she did not know why, his head turning from side to side _Hermione Hermione_ mouthing her name over and over, he shook his head and she took it as her signal, she would do it before he finished his silent refusal.

She let go, let the muscles in her legs go slack and let her slick channel accept him, caress him, grip him, then choke on him. She lurched forward, her hands landing heavily of his chest as she screamed, her body continuing its violent acceptance of the welcome intruder, pulsing and ripping and filling inside of her. She whimpered a word, a phrase before him, like a supplicant before her god, a prayer for mercy and continual violation. Her nails scraped his skin and she was sorry, but the pain in her cunt was persistent, as unyielding as the organ inside of her. It was done now, its passage up and within complete. She felt his gorilla fur sticking to her thighs with her blood. He turned his face to her, finally. He cowered from her woman pain and from his obvious pleasure. Now that she'd stopped whimpering, he could look into her face. She knew what he wanted. He wanted to make sure she was alright. He wanted to see if she would continue. She loved him, still, even though he had broken through her tender places. It wasn't his fault, it was God's. Or something. She breathed deeply, he breathed erratically beneath her, and she took pity on him. Poor beautiful boy, caught in a velvet trap. She felt him twitch inside, and it unhinged her. Fuck pain and inexperience, she was going to feel him _again_, all of him _again_, forcing flesh through flesh because it was his flesh, it was what he wanted, and she wanted it too. She rose up again, a dark parody of the first time, the innocent rise that did not understand _clutch_ and _devour,_ she watched him emerge smeared with blood and laughed, she was raw and bloody when she fell down on him again, forced herself down again, rolled forward again and rose up with a cry. And then, while she was up, he lifted his hips and thrust himself into her, she fell on top of him, him inside of her, she clenched him in her wanting heat and he thrust again, lifting her, making them flush and fluid and she convulsed like electricity and pain and he jerked with the same current and they were both doused and she toppled, a breached city with shining walls, and lay shuddering on his chest. It was minutes before she realized she was crying. She was naked, her breasts were on his sweaty chest and her head rested, tucked below his collarbone, breathing on him heavily. He was limp, hung heavy in his bonds. She slipped off of him and onto the floor. Her wand was next to her. She thought about it for a moment, just ending it all, but she felt he deserved the chance to do it himself. He could lie about it and get away with it, he was a skilled Occulomens. She threw the spells over her shoulder with a lazy flick, heard his arms fall as they were released. He moved on the bed. She tossed the wand beside her, tucked up her knees and wrapped her arms around herself. She could look down through her limbs and glimpse her bloody cunt.

"Professor, if you would be so kind …" She heard his voice, a reply with a wand, for what she assumed to be the last time.


	8. Chapter 8

This is my cheery welcome-back chapter! I'm finally able to start writing again

He'd wanted to kill her. He wanted to get rid of her body and be able to live like none of it had happened. All of the past had puddled into this moment. This doe-eyed princess was just as innocent as his Lily, but more broken, less light. She needed more care. She was more right for someone like him, someone who knew what it was like to feel very alone and inadequate and angry, and who would not use that against her, but would be a refuge. He would never have had her, though. He would have admired her and gone quietly to his undoubtedly painful death. But now she was his, unwillingly his no matter what she said or did. And he wanted to kill her for making him feel this guilt; he wanted to put her away in his shame cupboard where he never looked. He wanted things to go back to just complicated enough. But he'd stunned her. Because he knew he deserved the death he wanted to force on her, he deserved to die for taking away her sanity with a careless action. And now she lay before him, beautiful in the moonlight, sprawled grotesquely over the dusty floorboards. He had to do something, but he needed time to think. He needed to breathe. His mind flashed suddenly to her flushed face above him, her body enveloping his, and he shuddered with sickened desire. There were so many desires waiting below his skin, and it was all he could do to keep them aligned to passably good. It was as though he was ten different people, five somewhat good, five mostly evil, and they all wanted so much always. He thought of the ways he could dispose of her body. He knew he would get caught. He thought about killing himself, it might be the nobler thing to do, but he didn't really want to and it really wouldn't help. It would actually be worse for her—she would never be able to sate her desires. Killing them both was simply too gruesome and sounded like defeat. No one had to die here. It was, after all, only a mistake.

When he touched her, her skin was cold, and he felt panic and relief at the thought that she had accidentally died. But her stomach was warm and he could hear her breathing lightly when he turned her over. No, there was no need for her to die, because there were ways to fix this. He could teach her Occulomency to help control her thoughts. He could try different antidotes, try to develop a new one. He could lock her away. And in the end, he would wipe away her memories. He knew he could do it, and got a rush of adrenaline at the thought. It would be a challenge, but he could perform a memory charm quite well as it was, and had plenty of time to work on it. And the perfect test subject. He ran his palm gently over her stomach, stopping just below her breast. She really was lovely, in an understated way. He did not want to hurt her. He was a good person, she was a good person, and they would get through this together. He pulled her arm around his neck and slipped his underneath her limp body. He lifted her, and she was solid, but manageable. He knew he should bring her in the bathroom, wash her off and then tuck her in gently. But she was in his arms, so close to her smell he could feel it all over again, every second of the terror and the rage and the helplessness, and he walked past the banister, pushed open her door and laid her on her bed. He didn't know what she would be like in the morning, he thought about barricading her in, but decided against it. He was too tired. There was blood and cum on his penis and thighs, and he knew he had to shower. He had to get it off. The water was hotter than he normally had it, the washcloth chafed his skin as he scrubbed and scrubbed, desperately trying to remove the traces of his shame. He stumbled out of the tub and grabbed the cold sink, peering into the steamy mirror at a man that no one really knew, not even the owner of the image. He pushed himself through the door and nearly cried at the sight of his bloodstained sheets. As he pulled them off the tears started to fall, and he was sobbing quietly as he fell onto the naked mattress, thinking of the girls that he had hurt, and who had hurt him.


	9. Chapter 9

So, finally a bit of backstory :). Side note: for those loyal fans picking back up where I abandoned you so long ago, I appreciate your return more than I can say. To new readers, bear with me, hopefully as the story builds the quality of the writing will tend to improve. I welcome all readers, subscribers and reviewers, and thank you all.

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><p>Hermione did not want to wake up. She was so tired, but her mind had become aware of reality without her consent, and so she was mostly awake. She tried to reenter her dream about something, something by the sea … it wasn't a good or bad dream, it was a dream about life, and she wanted to see it again. But there was a pillow against her face, and her skin felt cold. Again, close to the dream, a boardwalk, the sound of the night sea … but she could not quite reach it. She felt a pain somewhere in her body. She shifted a little. Where was she? At the Burrow, she supposed. She would wile away the hours gossiping with Ginny or reading one of Mr. Weasley's books on Muggle studies—always fascinating. Or she would spend the day as she usually did, reading ahead in her textbooks, trying to prepare for the upcoming year and tuning out Quidditch talk from Harry and Ron. Eventually she would be pulled into the many surprisingly interesting conversations that developed out of such inane prattle. International Wizarding relations. St. Mungo's issues with healthcare reform. The problems the economy was facing now that people were afraid of Voldemort's return. Witch's rights. She loved these days. Sometimes, guiltily, she would feel that she and Ron and Harry didn't really have much in common except for their need for each other, but on those days she would remember. They were friends because they cared for each other, really truly wanted to hear the sound of each other's voices, wanted to know the other was doing alright, and wanted to be a part of the others' lives. It was because they had the same heart. She sighed into her pillow that smelled like dust instead of the sun and remembered the last time she had seen them.<p>

They were on separate missions, each in different locations in Hogwarts. She, in the dungeons with Snape. Ron in the Forest with Hagrid. Harry in one of the towers with Dumbledore. None of them knew what the other was doing, in case they were compromised, but they each knew they were at Hogwarts, and they would be back together in the end. She'd kissed them both on the cheek before they left, after receiving warm, strong hugs. She loved giving those kisses, feeling the scratchiness of their now more manly than boyish faces, hearing their deep, steady breaths as she leaned in. She remembered their smells. Ron smelled like spices, almost like cloves, and she knew he used something to smell that way. Harry smelled like midnight and sleepiness and laundry, and it broke her heart. Such tired, brave faces. And then they'd parted. And now all she knew was that they were alive. Over the past three months Snape had gotten one message from anyone: 'they are alive'. She had waited weeks for that message, her stomach aching with worry when she allowed it to feel their possible loss. Mostly she'd kept her mind off of it by learning as much as she could from Severus's books, and as much as she could about the man himself. Would this thought trigger the memory of last night?

She'd always disliked him, though not as much as Harry and Ron had. Now he intrigued her. He was obviously the type to have joined the Death Eaters, but the question burning though her was why he'd risked his life to betray them. What would motivate someone that much? Did he harbor a secret grudge against Voldemort? Did he figure that he was more likely to survive if he claimed allegiance to both sides? Or was it something else, something even she could not understand? She vowed to decipher just what it was in this man that drove him. But for all her efforts, she only managed to discover that he was mostly silent, and entirely mysterious. His motives were his own, and all she realized was that her dislike of him was shrinking with every hour that they spent together. He was silent often, that was true, but it wasn't always a menacing silence. Sometimes he seemed downright shy and unsure. Sometimes he made biting remarks, but she began to see that they usually stemmed from feelings of unease or fear. Like when she'd gotten so stifled from sitting indoors for too long that she'd ventured into the meadow around the house, and then into the woods, just to see something new. She was sitting on a stump, reading, when he found her.

"Miss Granger," he'd hissed "do you have a death wish, or do you feel that your innately superior knowledge of all things allows you to disregard common sense?" He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to her feet, the novel she'd been reading dangling at her side. "You are being _hunted_ by a _werewolf _who would like nothing more than to turn you, mate with you, and then give you to the Dark Lord to be tortured to death. Do you not see the seriousness in that? Or is having a private place to read Tolkien so damn important to you? You're a fool Hermione Granger. Some day all that cleverness will fail you, and you will be left a vulnerable little fool." He'd stamped off, not quite so impressive without the swirl of robes around him, but he still tore her heart to shreds. He'd made amends, though.

After doing the cooking without her noticing, but still maintaining a stony silence while eating, she had found a stack of books in her usual reading place. On top was the remaining book in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy that she thought she would never find in his piles of hundreds. Below it was the _Silmarillion_. Below that were two books by literary critics—one a Witch, one a Muggle—on the religious and magical symbolism in the Lord of the Rings. And a note: _I would like two rolls of parchment of analysis on the comparative worth of the Muggle and Magical perspectives, as well as your own interpretation of the magical symbolism in the _Silmarillion_. I will need these by Monday. No extensions Granger, I can see that you have plenty of time to complete this assignment by the deadline. No need to be a fool, yet._ It was the closest thing to an apology she would get from him, and it was a wonderful gift. From time to time she would receive other little assignments, and each one thrilled her. They were always so interesting. _I would like a three roll history of the use of the bezoar stone, and how its incorporation into the medical field has been controversial. I would like an analysis of the comparative effectiveness of mugwort versus hyacinth in warding off bad dreams. This study should be carried out over a period of two weeks. Present your experiment, findings and conclusions to me the following Wednesday. _They were fascinating things, mostly to do with potions, but some to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts, many with the history of the Wizarding World. She waded through his books searching for material, and she could not deny the fact that with each title she read, the more she admired him. One can tell a lot about a person by the books they keep around them, and how they're kept. There was no doubt the man was an academic at heart. The thickest books were obviously for reference only, but most of them were a little creased, a little mussed, and almost all had notes scrawled in the margins in his spidery hand. She would wait in agonized anticipation after she had awkwardly handed him her work, and it was magical how quickly he would produce a detailed criticism of her work. She would hand him her parchment in the evening, and it would be waiting for her in the morning at her seat at the breakfast table. He was always critical, but she learned to see praise in the things he did not point out, and was filled with glee when he would begrudgingly note that something was 'acceptable, but could use improvement'.

She began, over those long three months, to admire him. Yes, she admired him as a disciplined and knowledgeable academic. But she began to realize her feelings were a little more complex than that. One day she had woken up very early and she could not understand why. The dawn light was creeping through the blinds and she peeked at it, questioning why it had roused her. Because it gave no answer she rolled out of her bed and crept across the cold floorboards to her door. Yes, she heard something out there. Curiosity claimed her; she turned the knob slowly and silently opened the door. Snape was just coming out of the bathroom, his face still wet from washing it. He was in long, soft grey sleep pants and a thin cotton undershirt. He looked sleepy still, but awareness flooded his face when he noticed her. "Hermione! You startled me. Why are you up?" He was so quiet and warm looking. She wanted more than anything to wrap her arms around him, feel his chest rise against her, touch his bare arms, nuzzle her face into his neck … She was speechless. She knew she should say something, but she just stared at him. He was so comforting this way. Then he smiled. It was surprising and she felt a thrill when she saw it. It was a light, inviting smile, and he said, "I'm going to have a cup of tea. Would you like one?" And she nodded dumbly and, still in her bra-less state, she went downstairs behind him, watching his bare feet descend, wanting him suddenly. She crossed her arms at the cold table as he made tea, and when it was almost ready she got up and put in two slices of toast. They ate their jam-slathered toast and drank very sweet tea and still he _smiled_. He chatted amiably. She learned that he'd once sort-of had a dog, and she told him she rarely trusted them. He did not laugh, but he gave a slightly bigger smile, something she considered to be an impossibility for his face. Then they retired to the couch, reading in pajamas, covered in afgans. Then, though she didn't mean to, Hermione fell asleep. She was so perfectly content and warm and happy in that moment, she did not let anything get in past that ray of warm happiness, and she fell asleep. She awoke to good and bad news. Snape had changed into real clothes and back into his old, slightly scowling self. And her friends were alive.

But now she was awake. Hermione was awake in the bed she'd slept in for the past three months, in the room she'd gotten used to thinking of as her room, trying not to think of what lay beyond what she thought of as the wall she shared with his room. Because as she awoke, she began to remember. She remembered fear, and blood, and pain, and helplessness. She remembered actions which she couldn't claim as her own, and a very bad mistake. She remembered rape. And she felt the pain in her cunt, and finally looked down at her thighs and almost screamed, almost screamed at the blood she saw. It was so ugly, smeared and mixed with shiny, dried, snot-like cum, and she wanted to die when she saw it. She wanted to die because of the shame she felt, and the fear, but mostly because her body froze up, clenched up like closed fist, and she knew how much effort it would take to thaw and wash herself in warm water and go downstairs and face the world named him. She wanted to stay there and die so that she would not have to get up, because the world couldn't really ask her to go on, could it? It would be too cruel. She waited in the cold for an alternative, but she began to think, and as she thought despairing thoughts, mundane ones slipped in. She was thirsty. She needed to use the toilet. The blood was itchy. She wanted breakfast and a hot cup of tea. So she got up, and washed herself.


	10. Chapter 10

Alright, so sorry for the long wait, folks. It's been one hell of a time. But I hope you will bear with me as this story develops. There's just so much to it, so much waiting to reveal itself. Yeah, I'm excited. Holla if you feel me. ;)

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><p>Warm water. On a naked body. She loved it. The water was tinged pink around her legs, but it was beautiful. The tub was big and porcelain. It was cold and warm at once. She had no bubbles, no salts, just her body in warm water, observing herself, afraid to touch herself and let the control she had gathered slip away. She focused on benign things and wonderful things. Tea towels, the smell of books, the feel of hand-knitted mittens, her only pair of high heels. She was running out. The water was turning colder and her thoughts were becoming connected to her surroundings more obviously—tea towels because she wanted breakfast, the smell of books was the smell of him, she had been secretly knitting a pair of mittens for each of the Hogwarts faculty before she'd left (his were blue), and the water around her legs was the same elegant shade of pink as her pumps. She had to get out of the tub. But if she'd thought the trip from the bed to the bathroom had been difficult, it did not compare to the mental block she was currently experiencing. She felt dead in the water, like the rest of the world had died and she was just holding on long enough for the water to turn cold. She had to be careful, or she would be trapped in a porcelain prison.<p>

He had two cups of tea and toast with jam set out on the table. The tea was cold and the toast was stale, but he'd heard her moving about and now he didn't know what to do. He'd set it out deliberately, then sat at the table and waited for her to come down. Then he remembered how he had left her—bloody and bruised, dumped unconscious on her bed like a body into a grave. And he was suddenly afraid she would come down like that, dead, looking like one of the inferi with a bloody sheet trailing behind her. So he'd moved to a position he felt was less vulnerable, up against the sun splashed tile counter, gazing out the window over the dripping-faucet sink, trying not to look at the pieces of glass from the tumbler he'd thrown against the wall, the faint, shiny outline of where the potion had splashed and dried. All of it, dried or spilled or consumed. He couldn't even run the few tests he might have been able to try on the solution, now. He would have to test her. His tea was on the table, and he knew he could get it and drink it, but he was afraid. He did not want to ruin it, as though this simple breakfast was a bizarre ritual that, if only she would understand, would enable her to forgive him for everything. And if she forgave him, everything would be all right.

He heard a door open upstairs and his blood ran cold. This moment, this confrontation, terrified him almost as much as an interview with the Dark Lord. Almost. He tried to calm himself, arranging his features into the cool face he wore in his classroom. That face did not betray the pain that was often seething beneath his surface. Then he heard the tap running into the bathtub, the water rushing through the pipes in the walls around him. He wanted to go to her, now that he knew she was alive and willing to take care of herself. He wanted to be near her, to discover if she could forgive him, to find out if she was still affected by the potion or if this would all pass over like a deranged nightmare. He wondered about how it would go, her bath. And then he saw her naked body in the water, saw the column of her torso rising up in front of him, her pretty breasts just visible. Profane. They were profane images, especially in this kitchen of promised healing and recovery. Then he felt like a stranger in the one place he had ever really allowed himself to relax—except as a child, with Lily—and it nearly destroyed him. This was his place, his cottage, his escape from himself. Here none of his bad decisions had any consequences, it was insulated from any world, Wizarding or otherwise—except for the one inside his head. But she had come and his peace was tainted, smeared, profaned. She brought the dark edges into his bright kitchen, and he wanted to march up those stairs and drown her for it. He was so angry that he picked up his tea, and began to drink from it. It was his right, this was his home, they'd taken everything else from him. The only reason why he was even alive was because Lily thought it was a great idea to procreate with James instead of just loving him, and he was left with the last remnant of her. He would never lose her or let her go, and so he could not abandon something with her DNA. It just wouldn't do. And so he would live. But if he had to live, he would be a martyr on his own terms.

She was aching by the time her thoughts ran out. The water had a distinctive chill and she was trying to keep it from affecting her. She was trying to keep everything from affecting her, really. She stood on sore, shaky legs and felt the drops trailing down her body. She really loved this bathroom. She really loved the whole cottage, really. It was simple, and a little sad, but in the right light it was achingly beautiful. The towels were thick, though a little scratchy. She used both of them. One in her hair, one around her waist; snug. There was a thin rug on the floor so she did not slip as she took her first tentative step out of the tub. The mirror was fogged over, but she looked in it anyway. She brushed her teeth and tried not to remember that she was brushing his saliva out of her mouth. She would not feel it, she refused, and it was so hard. She could feel the memories pressing in behind her, pushing at the edges of her eyes and down her chest. She brushed her teeth until she could taste blood on her gums and scrubbed her tongue until she gagged. Then she had to decide. Would she leave the bathroom? Cross the landing back to her room, past his door, looking down the stairs, wondering where he was waiting? And then what? Clothes. Clothes to cover her shame and nakedness. But what clothes? She almost gasped aloud at herself; oh what to wear? What does one ever wear the morning after being fucked? She felt all of it and held onto the sink, staring into the mirror as the condensation revealed her face. She looked like herself, just a little tired and scared. So she opened the door and let the steam out with her, felt the cool day air circulating inside the cottage's stone walls. Her bare feet loved the hardwood floors, sticking to them slightly as she crossed, trying not to linger. There were the stairs, yes, and his door, closed. She made it to her room and crossed the threshold in a rush, trying to be inside before she was because she did not believe she would make it. She closed the door. The armoire. Drawers, underwear, wince. Bra. Shirt, shirt … that shirt. Comfortable. Pretty. Not raped. No skirts, no exposure, but no tight pants. The stinging flesh of her vagina told her so. She had a pair of loose jeans. She put them on, and they hurt a little. She did not take them off. She could feel it, but that was okay. Of course she would feel something bad, because something bad had happened to her—that did not mean she could stop living. And she wanted breakfast.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm back. And ready to see this thing through. Get ready folks, it's gonna be awesome! Please review, and feel free to hate me for dropping this for so long**

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><p>He liked her hair most of all. He liked the way it curled and frizzed and floated around her. It was wild and fierce, and he wanted that. He wanted to consume that. He breathed deeply, trying to catch the iridescent vapor, that thin waft of air that held a hint of her essence. There it was. Her scent. Hermione. It smelled like blood and books and lilacs. And a hint of vanilla. He wanted to find her so badly it hurt him, he wanted to feel her bloodsmell overwhelm him as he scratched his claws into her flesh, as she screamed and writhed alive beneath him. Oh, he wanted to devour her. But he had to bring her in alive. Alive alive alive. He did not dare show his face to the Dark Lord without her live body, and that extra one, the man. He hated that man, he was probably fucking her. Anyone would fuck her. She was that delicious mix of stubborn and stoic and weak and vulnerable that made the tastiest of victims. He could not kill the man, either. But he would make him suffer, because Fenrir had suffered. His failure brought down the full fury of the Dark Lord, and it razed his nerve endings until he begged for death, over and over again. But the Dark Lord needed him, so he too, was kept alive. The Dark Lord did not seem to see the value in a dead person.<p>

It was known that the most trusted one, the greasy slimy noble one, had betrayed the Dark Lord, and he had to be found, and brought to heel. His bones needed snapping, his skin flaying, his nerves burning. And Fenrir was the best finder. No natural or magical barrier would keep him from this target, because there was something that the Dark Lord noticed while the wolf howled. _Desire._ The wolf had wanted to catch those fools for his own uses, and if Fenrir caught a scent, a female scent, a scent that drove him mad and made him howl her name, he would stop at nothing to find her. So the Dark Lord let the beast loose, with a snarl on his lips and her scent in his snout. _Hermione._


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